Pretty Little Mistake

I’m riding a high. The epidural high. Any woman who chooses to go completely natural—wow, you’re a fucking badass. I tapped out and said, Give me the drugs.

“Whoever invented the epidural, I love them. They’re brilliant.”

Beckham’s knee bounces nervously in the blue plastic hospital chair he’s dragged over beside my bed. His hand still bears the brunt of my pre-epidural pain, the crescent-shaped indent of my fingernails now faded from a pink to a white.

He arches a brow, tapping his lips. He forgot to shave before we left, so his cheeks are scruffier than normal. His hair is getting long on top, falling into his eyes, so he continuously has to flick it away. “I thought you loved me?”

I smile dreamily at him. “I do, baby daddy, and you love me.”

“Baby daddy.” He snorts, rubbing his fingers over his mouth in an attempt to hide his amusement. “You’re high.”

“Am not.” I pout, cradling my stomach. Soon my baby won’t be in there anymore. I want to hold it for as long as I can. “I just feel great.”

Those contractions were no joke, so yeah, I guess technically I am high—high on not being in pain any longer.

Beckham reaches over, smoothing my sweat-dampened hair off my forehead. I smile in appreciation. It really is the little things. “I do,” he whispers.

“Do what?” My brain is too tired to function at this point.

He grins, clearly entertained by me. At least one of us is amused by all this. “Love you. I should’ve told you sooner, how I felt, but I was scared.”

“Why would you be scared?”

He doesn’t answer right away, thinking about how he wants to phrase his answer. “Loving someone means they can hurt you, and that has always terrified me. I’ve done my best to avoid pain in any shape or form, but giving your heart to someone—yeah, it’s at the risk of being brokenhearted, but would you rather have never loved the person at all? I . . . I wish I would’ve told my dad that I loved him. He might not have been able to say it back, but at least he would’ve known. I regret that now. I don’t want any regrets with you.”

I cup his cheek. “What happened to the grumpy bastard I encountered, oh . . . about what? Ten, eleven months ago?”

He places his hand over mine. “He’s still here, just matured. And don’t worry: I won’t hold the door open for you every time, just to remind you.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I appreciate it. You know, we still haven’t decided on a name. Time is running out. They’re going to expect us to have this figured out. I think parents are supposed to be more put together than we are.”

“We’re failing at this already.”

“What about Rose for a girl?” I suggest, deciding to start somewhere.

“Rose Sullivan.” He mulls it over. “Not bad.”

“Rose Wells sounds good too.”

Eyes narrowing, he shakes his head. “Don’t test me, woman.”

“What about boy names?”

“It’s not a boy,” he protests vehemently.

“It could be.”

“It’s not.”

“We should still have a name.”

He sighs, rubbing his jaw. “If it’s a boy, how about Wells?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Wells Sullivan. I kind of like it, but I don’t know.” As much as I joke about giving the baby my last name, I don’t know that I want those ties connecting back to my family. Not after how they’ve acted. My brother has started up calling and texting again. His last text was kind of rude. He told me to stop being a little bitch and answer him. No fucking thank you. “Any other ideas?”

He rubs his jaw. “Fuck, Len, I think I’m failing at this whole dad thing already. This is hard.”

“Who would’ve guessed there was so much pressure in naming a human?”

“I think anyone could’ve told you that.” He kisses my knuckle. “Let me google some names.” He sits back in the chair and slides his phone out of his pocket. Tapping the screen, he says, “For boys it looks like we’ve got Liam, Noah, Oliver—”

“Are you listing off the most popular names?”

“Yes?”

“Is that a question?”

“Um . . . yes, I was.”

“I don’t want to give our kid a name that’s completely out there—like . . . I don’t know, Puzzle, or something super crazy—but I’d like it to be different somehow. Unique. Personal to us.”

“Okay.” He scratches his jaw. “Mind if I ask where you came up with Puzzle?”

“It was the first random word that popped into my head,” I say defensively.

“I’m going to brainstorm some more names.” He stands up from the chair. “I . . . I might have an idea for a girl, but I don’t know.”

“Say it,” I beg.

“Nope.” He shakes his head adamantly. “Not yet. I’m going to grab some coffee. You want anything?”

“More ice, please.”

“You got it. But only because you said please.” He drops a kiss on my head. “I’ll hurry.”

While he’s gone, I check my phone, finding a string of text messages from Laurel.

Laurel: YOUR IN LABOR?!

Laurel: *YOU’RE—TOO EXCITED TO TYPE

Laurel: You better tell me the second that crotch goblin flies out of your coochie

Laurel: I want to meet my niece or nephew right away.

Laurel: I’m dead serious. I’ll show up at 3am if I have to.

It’s five in the evening. I’ve been in labor for more than a full day now if I started contracting when I suspect, which would’ve been yesterday morning, before the baby shower. I woke up not feeling right, but I naively didn’t think too much of it at the time.

Laurel: Are you okay? You’re not replying.

Laurel: Right, you’re in labor. I’m not important right now. Ignore me.

I can’t help but laugh at her rambling antics while I type out my own response.

Me: Hi. Sorry. Finally got an epidural. Feeling MUCH better. I’ll let you know as soon as this nugget decides to make an appearance.

Laurel: YOU’RE ALIVE

Laurel: I was getting worried your vagina got ripped to shreds and you were bleeding out somewhere.

Me: Nah, just waiting now. I was 6cm dilated the last time they checked. They should be back soon.

Laurel: Keep me updated as much as you can or get Beckham to do it.

Me: Will do. Beckham went to get coffee from the cafeteria. I’m going to try to get a nap. I think even if it’s only twenty minutes I’ll feel better.

Laurel: Oh my God, yes! I’ll shut up. Get some sleep. Love you!

Me: Love you, too, girly.

I set my phone almost out of my reach, so I won’t be tempted to grab it. The lights are already dimmed in the room, but I don’t see any point in trying to get some rest until Beckham returns.

A few minutes later he strolls into the room with his coffee and my ice.

I take the ice from him greedily, popping a cube into my mouth. It’s not much, but at least it’s something.

“I’m going to try to get a nap in. I’m feeling tired.”

He settles back in his chair, wincing at his first sip of coffee. “Is there anything I can do to help you sleep?”

“Just stay.”

He flashes me a small smile. “Don’t worry, honeybee, I’m not going anywhere.”

I feel like I’ve only just closed my eyes when the nurse comes in and flicks on the bright overhead lights, blinding me. I wake with an annoyed groan. The lights? Really.

“It’s time to check you.” No apology for disturbing my rest. Figures. At least this time I don’t feel her probing me. “Oh.” Her eyes widen. “It’s go time.”

“What? What does go time mean?”

I know exactly what go time means, but somehow, I seem to think making her spell it out will make it an easier pill to swallow.

“It means it’s time to push. I’ll get the doctor.”

“Push?” I shriek at Beckham the second the nurse is gone. “Am I going to be able to do this?”

He stands up, comes to stand by my side, and takes my hand. “You can do anything.”

“How do you know?” I start to cry, feeling extremely overwhelmed. This is a big deal. I’m about to bring a whole new human into the world. One who will be dependent on me to take care of it, teach them and guide them into being a good person.

“Because, Len, you’re the strongest person I know.”

“Fuck.” I cry harder. “That was really sweet. And I don’t know why I’m crying. I didn’t think I’d do that until the baby actually came.”

He reaches for the tissue box and grabs one for me. I expect him to hand it to me, but instead he wipes my face dry himself.

“You’re a badass. Don’t forget it.”

“In case I haven’t told you lately, I’m really happy that it was you who knocked me up.”

He laughs, amused. “You might not be saying that soon.”

“It’s okay. I can’t feel anything below my waist, so you’re safe.”

It feels like an eternity passes before my doctor is in the room, along with two nurses. I’ve never had so many people all seeing my vagina at the same time, but I can’t bring myself to care, since I’m about to meet my baby.

My baby.

I push and I push some more, and then, nearly an hour later, a screaming and squirming goo-covered baby enters the world.

Dr. Hersh puts the baby on my chest with a “Congrats, Mama.”

I’m shaking and crying, and I realize Beckham is too.

“You did so good. Look at her.”

I gasp. “Her?” I stroke my finger over a plump pink cheek, then trace the most perfectly shaped lips I’ve ever seen.

“It’s a girl,” he confirms, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, my lips. “We have a daughter.”

I close my eyes, holding my little girl to my chest, the realization that we’re a family now washing over me.

Nothing else in this world will ever matter as much as her.

She is everything.